The Credit Munch

Having survived as a content and impartial observer for so long, I have now been sucked into the swirling vortex of scare-mongering that is ‘the economic depression.’ The extent of which was truly revealed to me on the piss-stained bathroom floor of a club which had been slapped fully on the face by the grime wave that was sweeping the shores of Brighton.

Upon such sweet ground, a young thespian, obviously upset with the amount of produce he was getting from the deal that was ‘gwan down’ decided, bravely, to confront Gobblin’ Gary: ‘My good sir, in what province were you raised in which it was acceptable to present me this bag of shit under the guise of a Q?’ Or words to that effect.

This obviously rattled double G’s usually gold rimmed cage of morality and he had to draw upon every ‘Q’ of knowledge life had thrown at him to answer such a brutal question. Eventually, with nothing springing straight to mind, he obviously thought, fuck it worth a go: ‘It’s the credit crunch mate.’

Now, usually when such a prestigious phrase finds it’s way into the stitched up back pocket of a man like Gobblin’ Gary you know something, somewhere has been lost in translation. But the fact is there’s no translation, here is a phrase being carelessly thrown about by people who only know it as something which has cost them an unbelievable amount of money.
It is simply because some bankers assume the unwashed masses lack the IQ to wrestle with such a complex matter. By simply throwing recycled jargon straight from Economics Today Chapter 2 and the public subsequently throwing money back at them, they are preserving this equivocal equilibrium. ‘Yah, I think such a concept may just sail above the heads of some.’ Try me lads. Because, to be honest, I’ve heard better excuses for losing money from crack-addicts: ‘Shit man, I don’t know where it is now but I may have left, like a window open and then this racoon… hey can I borrow some money?’

And if we are now travelling down this route of honesty and the Pandora has truly been coaxed out of her box, these so-called ‘sub-prime mortgages’ just seem like shovelling cash at poor people in America who would do better with a pair of socks and a bowl of warm soup.

You can’t honestly tell me the complex business plan devised in the boardrooms of Manhattan involved Greasy Larry down the pub clutching a wad of cash in his sweaty palms saying, sincerely; ‘Fanks mate I shall now invest this wisely, now I couldn’t help but overhear you flutter about a phrase such like the price of gold, pray tell.’
And yet because they are paid astronomical wages and wear well tailored suits, we automatically trust them. Fuck me, imagine if it was a bunch of hippies who boned £750 billion pursuing their ‘green earth’ initiative. They would be straight on those one-way trains under the alibi of a one night only ACDC reunion concert and maybe, just maybe Gordon Brown might even treat us to a smile without having to use his wife’s hair clip to clamp his mouth open.

In fact, the only resistance we can muster up is a crew of ‘po-lice’ haters holed up in Trafalgar Square as part of a government-approved protest. One in which the only tremors which reached actual bankers were an email carbon copied to all ‘the boys’ advising them not to wear suits that day! What we need is a working class Robin Hood to emerge from these dying embers and be carried atop a Greggs’ delivery van to Fleet Street from whence he can deliver a scathing attack onto the prawn sandwich brigade as they run the gauntlet from their office to Pret a Manger.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get a new suit fitted for a Delloite’s interview I have coming up. ‘It’s the credit crunch mate.’